


Armour

by BedeliaAnneRavenscroft



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s03e01 Antipasto, F/M, Florence - Freeform, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Romance, inspired by a scene in antipasto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7311301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BedeliaAnneRavenscroft/pseuds/BedeliaAnneRavenscroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no cracks in her armour, though his person suit is threadbare and in need of a tailor's assistance; the stitching is coming apart slowly, day by day, as it has since she first peeked beneath his veil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Armour

Fire blazes from his fingertips as they graze against her back; he pays close attention, waiting for her sangfroid composure to melt away.

It does not.

“Thank you.” Her voice, steady and clear, maintains its usual controlled cadence.

He remains in place, gaze fixed on the slope of her bare shoulders, the gentle waves of her corn-silk hair. She casts a glance over her shoulder. Her blue eyes glitter in the soft light as though encrusted with thousands of tiny, tiny diamonds; their eyes meet. She holds his stare. Holds it. Holds it...

Nothing.

No cracks in her ice, no faults in her armour.

He turns swiftly, his footfalls echoing in the vast bathroom. Pause. He looks back.

She is perched on the edge of the antique copper bathtub, the taps running a steady stream of crystalline warm water, manicured fingertips trailing along the surface of the water to test its temperature. The movement of her hand causes small ripples to form, expanding into miniature waves that distort her reflection. She knows he is there, his maroon eyes watching her once more. Still, she does not turn. She speaks to the water: “Close the door on your way out.”

He nearly smiles, the corners of his mouth twitching with the impulse he can barely contain. There are no cracks in her armour, though his person suit is threadbare and in need of a tailor's assistance; the stitching is coming apart slowly, day by day, as it has since she first peeked beneath his veil.

He wonders if he can crack her composure before their time together ends, before decisions must be made, teacups shattered, and meals devoured.

He will not devour her, though; to do so would be to waste her.

His wish is to savour her. He will do this for as long as she will allow.

********

Footsteps across the landing, approaching her bedroom. Her footsteps. They stop in the open doorway, as they always do, while she listens intently for sounds from within: for a sign of another presence in her personal space. She hears the intruder, for he does not try to hide. She hears his even breaths, deep and steady, as familiar as her own.

Her hand reaches out into the darkness inside the room, fingertips walk across the wall to the dimmer switch. The golden lights reveal the interior of her room, the master bedroom. The king-sized bed, designed for two but used regularly by only one, is not as alone as it should be; he reclines back against her pillows, his long legs stretched in front of him. She raises a shaped eyebrow at the sight of his bare feet on the quilt; his highly polished shoes are on the floor beside the bed, a plain black sock tucked neatly in each.

The expression on his face alters as his eyes make note of the black towel wrapped around her damp hair, the silk robe concealing her petite frame, her bare legs...

Both know she has the upper hand in the situation, though he may not wish to accept this. To do so would be to admit a weakness he has no control over.

“Join me.” His voice, as it so often does, permits her the choice his words rarely do. She knows this is a force of habit; from his appreciation of politeness and exceptional manners derives his inclination to offer another option, though he often would rather not. Especially now. Both know what he wants, and both acknowledge it as something he will never ask for explicitly.

She could walk out. He would not stop her. He would respect her decision.

A part of her wants to retire to his designated bedroom, sleep in his bed while he rests in hers. In doing this she could continue to tug at his strings while maintaining a facade they have both become accustomed to over the years. But another part of her prickles at the thought; not because of fear, though occasionally she worries what will happen when he should tire of her carefully crafted games.

With a mask over her features, one that betrays nothing she feels inside, she leaves the lights on.

Bare feet across the cold floor, footsteps stopping beside the bed. His eyes meet hers, hold her gaze. She refuses to break eye contact as she climbs atop the bed, crawls across the cool and empty sheets to his side.

Her hand, still warm from the water of her bath, closes around his. Their wedding rings click against each other; real, expensive, exquisitely-crafted rings – hers the most of all three. He would only ever have the best for her, even if their marriage is a farce, the names they call one another belonging to another couple, a couple whom they ate.

He turns his hand over, entwining their fingers as she leans closer, closer, closer. Her lips hover millimetres from his. They share the same breath of air. She remains still, testing the waters once more.

He does not move. If he does, she will retreat to the other room, as she has many times in the past. He must exercise patience with her.

Slowly, slowly, she brushes her lips against his. Again. And Again. Stop. She pulls back, a smile on her lips. Her armour remains intact, her ice as strong as diamonds, even as his lips leave a blazing trail down the side of her face, her jaw, her neck...

His fire will not melt her; he wills it not to.

Though he hates to admit it, even to himself, he enjoys the games they play, their battles with fire and ice.

 


End file.
